Shattered Innocence
A story of a needle
“Shattered Innocence. A Story of a Needle” by Denzil Jayasinghe is a short story told from the perspective of a lad who discovers their father injecting insulin. This discovery shatters his innocence as he grapples with the reality of his father’s diabetes and the fear and uncertainty it brings. The story explores themes of family, responsibility, and the challenges of facing difficult realities.
The pre-dawn light filtered through the window, casting a pale glow over a scene that shattered my world. We were lost in the quiet routine of getting ready — me for the apprenticeship, my siblings for school, and my father for his work. I wandered into my parents’ room, searching for the familiar black comb. What I found wasn’t the comb but a sight that froze me in my tracks.
Father, stripped down to his white undies, his usually strong face creased with worry, was doing something… different. His hair, usually neatly combed, was a mess. In one hand, he clutched something metallic that glinted in the dim light. The other hand held something even sharper, a needle like a tiny, cruel dagger. With a swift, practised motion, he plunged it into his thigh.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The familiar morning sounds — the gurgle of the teapot, the clatter of dishes — faded into a distant hum. This wasn’t the father I knew. The one who taught me to stand on my own, to be who I am, always tapped me on my back in the morning before I left home. What was this horrible thing he was doing to himself?
Panic clawed at my throat. My innocent mind, devoid of any knowledge about injections, could only interpret this as self-inflicted torture. Shame burned in his eyes as he met my horrified gaze. It was as if he’d been caught red-handed doing something unforgivable — shame for himself, shame for what I might see.
Forgetting the comb, forgetting everything but the terrifying image etched into my brain, I stumbled out of the room. My legs led me to the kitchen, a sanctuary of normalcy. Finding Mother, I blurted out the question that echoed in my head, my voice barely above a whisper, “Why is Father hurting himself?”
The world had changed in that single, horrifying moment. The innocence of childhood was shattered by the glint of a needle and the despair in my father’s eyes.
The clatter of cookware filling the kitchen barely registered. Mother kept packing lunches, her back a wall between me and the world. Finally, she met my gaze, a flicker of concern in her eyes. “It’s insulin, Denzil,” she said softly. “Your father needs it every day to keep his blood sugar under control.”
A wave of relief washed over me momentarily. Then, a deeper chill settled in my bones. Everything clicked into place. Dad’s seriousness lately, the way he’d tired so easily. The heart attack a few months back, the whispers I never understood. His controlled diet, now, the needle.
The bus schedule screamed at me — 7:05. No time to unpack the mess in my head. I grabbed my brother and we sprinted, a silent understanding passing between us. At the bus stop, we parted ways, him to his white school bus, me to the city on the lumbering Route 138. I snagged a seat, Kandy Road blurring past.
A mosaic of new worries formed. A heart attack. Diabetes. Pressure. Words that were just medical terms before are now shadows hanging over my father. He’d shielded us, carried this burden alone. But I was the eldest, wasn’t I? Why hadn’t he trusted me enough to share it?
The anger simmered alongside the fear. A knot tightened in my stomach as the bus rumbled, carrying me towards a suddenly uncertain future.
In the dim pre-dawn light, the interior of a modest Sri Lankan home comes into view. The scene is set in 1975, and the room is a mix of traditional and contemporary elements reflective of the era. The young protagonist, Denzil, stands frozen in his parents’ bedroom doorway. His slender frame is silhouetted against the faint glow filtering through the window, his expression a mix of shock and confusion.
In the foreground, his father is seated on the edge of the bed, stripped down to his white underwear. His usually strong, composed face is etched with worry and exhaustion, his dishevelled hair adding to the uncharacteristic vulnerability. One hand grips a small metallic insulin injector while the other expertly administers the needle into his thigh. The starkness of the needle, glinting in the muted light, captures the pivotal moment of discovery.
The room is sparsely decorated but homely, with hints of a loving family’s life — an old wardrobe in the corner, a framed photograph on the bedside table, and a chair with a neatly folded shirt draped over it. The everyday sounds of the morning — clattering dishes, the soft gurgle of a teapot — seem distant and muted, heightening the moment's tension.
Behind Denzil, the kitchen is partially visible, where his mother stands, her back to the scene, absorbed in packing lunches. The normalcy of her actions starkly contrasts the turmoil unfolding in the bedroom.
As Denzil’s eyes meet his father’s, a silent, desperate communication passes between them. His father’s shame is palpable, a profound sadness mingled with a plea for understanding. The young boy’s innocence, symbolised by his wide, uncomprehending eyes, is shattered in this fleeting yet indelible moment.
In the background, the first light of dawn hints at a new day, but for Denzil, it signifies the end of his childhood innocence and the beginning of a deeper understanding of his father’s struggles and the complexities of life.
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